Powerplay
by xXdreameaterXx
Summary: Irene Adler was like a carefully drawn line of cocaine laid out on a spotless mirror, inviting him to use with the promise of perfect ecstasy and though he knew that by morning the regrets would have settled he found it impossible to resist.Sherlock/Irene


**Powerplay**

_Irene Adler was like a carefully drawn line of cocaine laid out on a spotless mirror, inviting him to use with the promise of perfect ecstasy and though he knew that by morning the regrets would have settled he found it impossible to resist. Set during 'A Scandal in Belgravia'. Rated M for sexual contents (nothing explicit though), mild violence and mention of drug abuse. Reviews greatly appreciated._

Flames were blazing in the fireplace, occasionally making the cracking sound of burning wood that accompanied Sherlock on his violin. He had been playing for half an hour now to get his mind off everything else, especially the guest sleeping next door: Irene Adler.

After their first meeting Sherlock had forced himself not to think about her and that was proving to be difficult. But so far his system was working fine. No matter what, every time there was a thought he was trying to ignore, whether it be the longing for a cigarette, drugs or an emotion he couldn't possibly deal with, he gave his mind something else to do. People said he was cold and unemotional but that was not entirely true. He felt, he just chose to express his feelings on a completely different level.

He didn't hear the door open or the footsteps approaching him over the sound of his song and when she spoke it was already too late.

"That is beautiful," Irene said after she had entered the room so quietly no one could have told she was there.

Sherlock stopped, his bow remaining in mid-air, and waited before he replied: "I didn't wanna wake you."

"No need to apologize. I like you music."

Irene Adler came closer. Now that the sound of the violin was gone he heard every careful step.

"I wasn't. . ." - a hand touched his back - ". . . apologizing."

Just a little confused by the touch Sherlock turned around to face the woman. She wore her hair down but it was put in place perfectly. There was also a tiny bit of black kohl around her eyes and it wasn't smudged. And she was naked under her robe, not a single trace of underwear. So, she had been waiting in the next room all this time without even trying to sleep.

"What are you up to?" Sherlock asked right away. He had no intention of playing her game.

Irene took another step toward him and taking the violin out of his hand and carefully placing it on the table nearby, she sighed.

"Isn't it obvious?" she asked back, "I want you."

So, _that_ game it was.

"Don't tell me you haven't thought about it, too."

He was quiet and looked past her. Sherlock tried to think about something else, analyzing anything his eyes could find. Anything but her. Anything but what she was about to do.

He didn't see it but before he could find the balance she had pushed him into the armchair behind him.

"Answer me, Sherlock. Can you honestly tell me you didn't think about this?" Irene pointed down her body as she said that. She was posing in front of him now, the satin robe slightly opened but still covering her breasts.

He swallowed and he wanted out. Where was the ever present John when he needed him? Where was his landlady? No, he was alone with this devilish woman and he had to deal with her. But why was it so hard this time to concentrate on other things? What was so special about her that he – the great Sherlock Holmes – seemed to lose his nerve when she came too close?

"I haven't," Sherlock said and this time he looked her in the eyes.

"Okay, then. . . let me refresh your memory," with this she dropped her robe and it was now confirmed that Irene had indeed been naked under it.

There were exactly 4 loose panels on the living room floor, the first one exactly by the door, where the former resident had dropped something heavy and also sharp according to the dent it had left behind. There had been drawings made by children in his room and the paint applied later had failed to cover them completely. Sherlock guessed that the former occupant had been careless and in a hurry to leave this place behind. But all the information could not distract him from the woman he was staring at and the feeling of arousal he still desperately tried to suppress.

Irene Adler was quite like a straight, carefully drawn line of fine, white cocaine laid out on a spotless mirror in front of him, teasing him, inviting him to use with the promise of perfect ecstasy and oblivion and though he knew that by morning the regrets would have settled and the world he was living in would have turned just a little bit darker he found it impossible to resist.

Sherlock tried averting his eyes but they remained fixed on her body, her breasts that seemed too perfect, her small belly, her strong thighs and the pale skin that made him wonder if it felt different to his own. Would it be as smooth as it looked under his touch or would this woman tremble?

In the soft light of the fire Sherlock thought that there honestly couldn't be any harm in just touching her, like an experiment. After all, you couldn't get high from just touching the white lady with your hands either, could you?

The imagination of her warm skin under his hands alone brought a weird tingling to his crotch and he was startled from his dream by a hand suddenly fondling with the collar of his shirt, trying to unbutton it.

"W-w-what are you doing?" Sherlock asked right before Irene shushed him. She bent down to his ear, her delicate breasts now softly pressing against his torso and whispered:

"Undressing you, silly."

She laughed a little and let one hand wander upwards between his thighs and Sherlock realised there was no point in hiding his growing erection.

Just before she could reach his most intimate area he caught her wrist.

"Stop it," he told her but what was meant to sound forceful and convincing came out only as a pleading moan.

Irene used her other hand to hold his head and turn his face to her. Looking him into the eyes, she said softly: "Beg!" And when he didn't reply she pressed her lips on his. Sherlock didn't even resist when he felt her tongue and gave up. He was powerless now under her touch and so he gave in to her kiss, and even more; now he could touch her for he had already lost, he could run his hands all over her back, press her closer to him until he was sure she was covering every inch of his body.

But just when Sherlock thought that she had him, Irene stopped. Without a sane reason she just stopped and got up, leaving him sitting alone in the armchair.

He was still baffled when she started screaming at him.

"You're pathetic, Sherlock Holmes!"

He still had no idea what hit him. Why was she screaming now when just five seconds ago she had been all over him? Was that it? The great plan? Leading him on just to let him fall?

"I had heard so much about you, the great Sherlock Holmes, the best detective there is and cold as ice. I knew I had to have you and I thought it would be almost impossible to manage. But here you are, ready to be mine. And yet. . . you can't just take what you want and I know you want me."

"What are you talking about?" this woman was making him angry. He had no idea what was going on and it bugged him. She could have had him, why was she complaining? That had been her goal all along, right?

"I know your history. You play tough but inside you're just weak, you have no willpower. You wanted to resist me but you couldn't. You wanted to take me but didn't. You're like that with everything – drugs, friends, enemies."

Analyzing him? How dare she and above all, why was she right? Why could she read him when he couldn't read her? What was it about that woman that drove him so mad now?

Sherlock got up to face her now, at least in height he could overpower her. But even as she looked up to him there was this glimmer of superiority in her eyes.

"You're not the man I thought you were."

Without really wanting to he slapped her across the face. At first Irene let out a cry of pain but when she turned her face back to him she actually smiled.

"Now we're talking," she said, still grinning.

Sherlock found it hard to admit, but she had been right and she had also proven her point. When she had entered the room earlier he had known that her intention had been to seduced him and he had failed to resist her. But when he had decided to be seduced by her he had taken no real part in it, he had just let it happen although he had wanted it. Now it was his turn to prove a point.

He threw her on the floor, right onto the carpet in front of the fireplace and pinned her down with the weight of his body, holding her wrists just tightly enough to leave a mark. Sherlock bent down to kiss her, more forcefully than she had kissed him earlier and felt her leg embracing him.

So, that was what she had wanted. For him to take the initiative and admit that she could even have the great Sherlock Holmes.

Just when he felt that Irene was giving in to him like he had done and she stopped working against him, he let go off her wrists and when the kiss stopped she opened her eyes o look at him just a little bewildered. Sherlock smiled and as he saw that she was understanding his hesitation less with every passing second he started laughing out loud.

"Oh, Irene. . .," he said, "you were wrong about one thing."

He got up and started closing the buttons of his shirt.

She sat up, still looking at him more than a little puzzled. "What?"

"You're not that desirable."

Sherlock closed the living room door behind him but as he walked away from _the woman_ he knew that this was just the beginning of a powerplay that was about to go on for a long time.


End file.
